Autumnal
by ikeepoddhours
Summary: Angelina Johnson is an Auror fallen from grace in the aftermath of case gone horribly wrong. Graham Montague is an Unspeakable set on bringing Johnson back to her duties or to her end...or possibly even to both?
1. The villa

_Disclaimer: I don't own any of it! Except the plot and all the rambling, oddly constructed sentences._

()()()()()

Thick folds of silvery-grey mist crept across the sky; the increasingly chilly air washed over her and she twitched a little.

It didn't matter.

She rolled onto her side and groggily opened her eyes to see the long, surreally blue-green blades of grass encircling her, framing her view of the afternoon sky.

Her cottage was in the distance; warm, homey, and pleasant enough...although it would probably have been more pleasing to her had not all that had happened during these long months of summer occurred.

She rolled onto her back.

The burnished-gold rays of the waning sun seemed to melt right into her.

She was soon lulled back into a deep slumber.

()()()()()

Standing only a few metres from the tumbling old Catalonian villa, sequestered behind a crop of decaying rose bushes, someone was watching Angelina's unconscious form silently.

The scowling young man, slouching slightly with his hands in his pockets, turned his penetrating gaze from the sleeping woman to the old house. He grimaced at the small, squarish, marmalade-colored structure with its bleached terra cotta roof.

_How could she live in such a place?_

Montague Manor was, of course, far more accommodating and yet somehow not enough without her living there.

Had she seen him, she would've noticed that he was a sight thinner and sallower after their last heated exchange.

She had meant to leave him, of course. He didn't try to delude himself that she was here for any other reason. And he let her believe she succeeded, however, if only out of grave concern for her mental and emotional stability. He could appreciate what she'd been through. Perhaps their...relationship did in fact need to put on temporary hold.

He was willing to compromise to some extent. She had, over time, forced him to become this way. But he still knew where she was, still had taken the liberty of casting about two dozen protection spells within a 100-yard radius of the house, including an invisible barrier which would prevent her from her wandering off into trouble, and more importantly, out of his reach.

And he needed her within his reach, even if they couldn't speak.

She shifted again, and her eyes fluttered open. She thought for a moment that the wind hummed like a Brandenburg concerto. He had often liked to play the Brandenburg concertos. And, playing with such solemn grace, she had always thought he was trying to communicate through the music. Maybe the message wasn't expressly for her, or for anyone else at all, but it was certainly something he could not and would not express with words.

She wondered where he was and what he was doing. If he was thinking of her, cursing her, missing her, or just remembering what had been..._what had been_.

Her head fell back into the grass.

She was tired. And thirsty. Why didn't she go back inside for some tea?

He had always kept the tea brewing- hot, but never excessively so, the taste somewhere between sweet honeysuckle, mint, and chamomile. After much effort, she had never managed to make anything so satisfying, and he refused to share his secret. She visualised him, reading in the study of his dank, old Edwardian manor, pausing to reach for a cuppa.

She wondered if he still made the whole pot, if he still carried a service with crumpets on those exquisitely engraved silver trays. Was someone else there with him, sipping it precipitously and reading one of her novels?

He would be twenty-seven next week. Despite this, she knew his womanising days were behind him. Women bored him far too quickly. Even at Hogwarts, he was never as an enthusiastic playboy as Malfoy or Zambini, both of whom easily outshone him. He was very choosy about the times he would use that deadly Slytherin charm, although when he did, he got just about anything he wanted. Even though it seemed entirely possible that he was made of ice and plaster rather skin and bone, he could, at will, completely immobilise someone with his intent stare, and proceed to comfort and caress them in precisely the way they had always longed for. Speaking ever so tenderly, in that deliciously low, gravelly voice of his, he could convince anyone of his sincerity.

But most of the time he was just a bastard.

Perhaps he lived alone now, content to pamper himself and enjoy his own company. Who else did he believe genuinely deserved such a privilege anyway?

_The git, _she thought, smiling bitterly.

Smoothing out the creases in the lap of her long summer dress, Angelina rose and began walking.

It was getting much too cold now.

()()()()()


	2. Nihil

()()()()()

She felt the antique, shingled walls shake a bit as she gently pushed the door back into its frame. With her back to the entrance, she paused to stand before the room silently, taking in both the darkness and dim golden light that trickled in through the slats of the blinds.

She was as good as dead now, for all she had been doing with her life for the past three months.

It had ruined her, hadn't it? She **had **been living, but now only existed hoping that previous life might mercifully reprise exactly where it had left off. But she could do nothing.

There was nothing new she could think of to do, at any rate.

She swallowed the lump in her throat and tried to remember what she'd come back inside for.

What had she come for?

_For the nothingness_, was her mind's weak and bitingly cynical reply.

She came here because she felt nothing and wanted nothing, except of course, that nothing happen to her here.

She inhaled slowly. Angelina was gone, but her body still needed something to do.

Her dark, thick lashes fluttered erratically as the dust and humidity in the room began to dizzy her.

Had she remembered to eat today? To drink enough water? The air was suddenly thickening and surrounding her; she felt vertigo closing in.

Angelina felt herself tumble backwards against the door, and from there she sank from there until her knees touched the floor.

_What...inside...I...came..._

Soon, she was aware she was gazing up at the ceiling, hearing her breath whistle softly through her lungs.

The rest of her body didn't appear capable of responding to her commands.

So this was it. But like this, here? Would some muggle find her? Would it only be ages later when someone from the Ministry followed? What kind of a state would her corpse be in by that time?

At least she would be sent back her family, she thought drowsily. _Bet...they've...missed...me..._

When her head sagged to the side, her blinking slowed. So she couldn't even take care of herself properly anymore, and the neglect had turned deadly combined with the crushing weight of self-pity. She sighed, full of gloomy content. She might be disappointed, but she was also relieved.

But she was not in fact alone.

Her large, dark eyes widened at the shadowy outline of a familiar form bending over her.

A ball of anxiousness and fear knotted itself in Angelina's stomach. _Don't look up. Remember, don't look up!_

He'd found her. She knew he would, eventually. Perhaps he had even been watching her all along. There had always been an eerie sort of calm about this place. Although she'd escaped, she never managed to get peace of mind here. There was stillness, but no peace.

"Angelina."

She stayed silent, staring blankly ahead at his hands, their stark paleness seeming to glow out from the darkness.

"Look at me, love."

She realised she could still speak but wisely decided it wasn't worth the risk in her vulnerable position.

"Angelina," he whispered softly, "I've got all the time in the world. You're at my mercy, so to speak."

Although this was already easy, she willed herself not to move an inch.

"Should you be wondering, you're under a debiliatis spell. "

Oh, so that was it? Champion! Of course he had debilitated her. Of course. He liked to see her helpless.

"Angelina, you needn't make this any harder on yourself. Look at me."

The warmth of his nearness was tempting. She felt his gaze focus intently upon her, and the hairs stood up on her neck. Breathing in sharply, she felt her body give a shiver which she immediately regretted. She thought -or imagined- she heard music now; the same melody from only moments ago. Perhaps it wasn't even audible, only playing faintly in the aphotic recesses of her mind. What the bloody hell kind of music did you sense rather than hear?

The music grew louder, filling her head, and trying to push out all the feelings of obstinacy and resentment. It was a bizarre siren's song in its own right. He hadn't moved any closer, yet the magnetism of his gaze and enclosing heat was overwhelming her. Her finally head lifted and her eyes met heavily fringed, gleaming aquamarine orbs.

_Merlin, no!_

Her stare hardened and she began to channel all of her energy into the few occlumency recitations Harry had taught her before she'd left. They were her only protection, but she hadn't nearly enough practice to feel at all reassured.

_Obscuruo...servaro, servaro, sedo...servatuo!_

Her face seemed to freeze with her brows knitted in determination. Her eyes had widened further, exposing black liquid pools. Gods be cursed, the smug bastard wasn't going to win this time.

"Angel...Angelina!" he exclaimed, his cooes giving way to a shout of exasperation.

Yet her body remained motionless, her expression fixed with a vacant, unblinking stare.

()()()()()


	3. Control

()()()()()

He didn't understand it. How could he have been so stupid as to allow her to get into this state? He didn't deny wanting her to feel lonely, isolated so entirely that she'd realise how much of a damned ungrateful wretch she really was. But he had also expected her to break down into miserable sobs weeks ago, try to leave, and find that she had been caged in. At that moment, he would appear and being humbled finally, she would plead with him for her freedom. After the necessary prostrating was done to satisfy his pride, he would bring her home.

That had been the plan, anyway.

It was obvious she was no longer ignoring him but in a stupor. Panic prickled through every limb of his body. He gathered the unconscious (also substantially lighter, he noted) woman into his arms, and deposited her on the couch. She was quite obviously alive and breathing, but unnaturally rigid. He brushed the soft, black hair from her forehead and kissed the tip of her nose. As a skilled Legilimens, he had always been able to read her thoughts. But this time, she'd fainted dead away before he had the opportunity. She hadn't even seemed to want to look at him. Grimacing slightly, he rose and strode over to the window, pulling up the blinds and hoping the light would brighten the room, and perhaps his mood.

He still remembered the day he'd first dared to make his advances.

()()()()()

It was fifth year, and Snape had them working in pairs, researching ingredients. Angelina had gotten up to fetch a book and for once, left that bothersome Spinnet girl behind. As he trailed her soundlessly towards the east wing of the library, he (disturbingly) found himself puzzling over things to say.

When she stopped short in front of a shelf which conveniently secluded in a corner, he seized the opportunity.

"Healing up nicely, I see."

Angelina's head snapped up. Possessing uncommonly fast reflexes, she turned around in what seemed like a fraction of a second. He reared back involuntarily. Her skinny, black braids swung about her shoulders and seeing him, she lifted her chin and arched an eyebrow.

"Nice of you to say so. Then again, I'm afraid there wasn't as much damage as you'd like to think, Montague."

Boldly stepping forward, he cupped her cheek, then let his hand slide down the slope of her shoulder.

"And you may consider yourself lucky in that respect, Johnson. I can be an absolute maniac on the field, but as it happens, I've recently developed a keen interest -his hand came to rest on her hip- in keeping your body intact."

At first she only scoffed, flabbergasted. As though encouraged, he learned forward, and her myriad emotions settled on repulsion. Her youth and lack of experience quite understandably translated this feeling into violence. He was sent stumbling unceremoniously backwards into the shelf behind him, which would have surely toppled had his wiry body not been so quick to recover.

Somewhat disappointed, she cocked her head to the side. So his athleticism wasn't in total disrepute. His latest stunt during what was supposed to be a friendly match had landed her a week-and-a-half in the infirmary. But she couldn't hold a grudge against him, really; it was a well-known fact that Slytherins couldn't hope to compete without cheating.

Still, he was barely an inch taller than her and she hadn't even gotten him to fall. She eyed him arch and straighten his back like a cat, finally running a hand through his smooth, raven-colored hair before glaring at her wrathfully. Satisfied she'd won the day, she suppressed a giggle and flashed her most dazzling smile, revealing two lovely rows of perfectly straight, white teeth.

"It's nothing personal, Monty, -she couldn't help giggling now- but practically speaking, we Gryffindors can't very well stand being that close to your kind."

From the looks of it, he wasn't feeling quite as playful. His eyes were now boring into hers and his complexion blanched to an altogether ghostly pallor. If the shove hadn't been enough, she had really done it with that last comment.

Paralysed mostly by curiosity, Angelina stood rooted the spot, matching his stare.

"That was a mistake, Johnson. "

At that point, she didn't possess the presence of mind to protest when he swiftly advanced again, stopping just a hair's breadth from her face. She realized then she had never gotten a good look at his eyes before. To call them 'striking' was a serious understatement. She might have even been aroused had his present gaze not bespoke the deep fury and borderline lunacy of a would-be murderer.

"Was it?"

She murmured the question absent-mindedly, not really meaning to speak it aloud but too fixated by his eyes to process her thoughts silently.

"Indeed," he said, speaking softly, but in a tone of voice at least two octaves lower than normal.

"Do tell, Monty. What was I mistaken in doing?"

His hands grasped the edges her robes, pulling them forward slowly.

Angelina felt herself take a step backward, only to be followed instinctively by Montague with a step forward. She lifted her chin, trying an indifferent shrug but not breaking eye contact. She knew she had to do something, but his eyes burned into her own and effectively prevented her from moving. His hands were already caressing her arse through her skirt.

_What the bloody hell would happen if someone were to come back here_?

Unfortunately, his mind had screamed a question he wasn't terribly interested in answering at the moment. He scarcely believed he came here with the intent of making amends (in his own way) and the miserable wench couldn't even take a compliment. Well, perhaps a smarmy come-on that qualified on its face as a compliment. She wanted to challenge him, so he'd teach her to be more lady-like.

"Mistaken in supposing that because I'm a gentleman off the Quidditch grounds you're somehow getting out of this unscathed. There are just loads of horrible things that can be got away with in a secluded corner of the library. And right now, I'm wondering how much of an angel you really are."

Angelina still barely registered her surroundings. She was too focused on thick, mentholated heat permeating the small space between their faces. She couldn't have been less prepared for what came out of her mouth next.

"Stop mucking about and find out for yourself, Monty," she taunted in a sing-song voice, "Or don't you know what you're doing down there?"

His eyebrows raised and suddenly every muscle in his seventeen-year-old body was finely attuned to the dusky temptress in front of him. She looked mesmerized, her full, honeyed lips slightly parted and doe eyes glazed over as though she was dreaming. Her suddenly deep breaths were causing her lovely chest to rise and fall sharply.

Entirely perplexed as to how he elicited this radically different response, he couldn't resist seeing what happened if he pressed further.

Leaning forward to brush his forehead softly against hers, he let his long fingers wrap around the narrow curve of her waist, and squeezed hard. Already very breathless, her throat let loose a strangled gasp. He was holding her far too tightly, but she was in no position to recall enough language to tell him stop. Her eyes closed. She felt like fainting.

"Angel-ina," he whispered coaxingly, "What do think Weasley would say if he found you being mauled by a big, bad Slytherin?"

He loosened his grip on her waist and nuzzled the shell of her ear, thoroughly enjoying her butterscotch scent. Her eyes opened then, only to close again when she felt his wet, hot tongue slide across her jawline and up to her lower lip.

_Kissmefuckingnowyoufuckingbastard_, she thought savagely.

Entirely beside himself, he continued running his tongue over every contour of her face, wanting to memorize her broad, regal features. As those snakelike fingers burrowed in her thick hair, turning her head this way and that, she had to take hold onto his shoulders just to steady herself.

"Not much I'd guess, as we've split."

A feline expression spreading slowly over his face, he paused to admire her, still lost in reverie.

"Oh, a lioness after my own heart. Already finished tearfully agonising over the loss of your happily-ever-after? The pea-sized, happy home packed with a litter of freckle-faced Weaslets running about?"

"Mmm, you could say I've come to terms with it, yes."

"Quite clearly. And how long did it take you?"

With an impatient snort, she opened her eyes.

"What is it to you? A week or so, maybe."

Wearing a broad smirk now, he shook his head ruefully.

"And they say letting go is the hardest part."

Rolling her eyes, she turned away and began to inspect the end of one of her braids closely.

"Well, they were wrong."

He dipped his head slightly to catch her eyes again, assuming a visage of deep sympathy. Leaning in close as though to offer a sordid confession of his own, he whispered:

"Or, maybe the angel is really a harlot."

Snapping quickly out of the renewed haze induced by his pretended sincerity, she bit her lip hard and replied, she hoped, with equal cruelty:

"Well, only as much as you are a slimy, gutless git without any relationships not forged through mutual convenience or force."

Pulling away, he smiled darkly and blew her a kiss.

"Convenient is the certainly the term I'd choose to describe our little rendezvous. Adieu, until the next time it strikes my fancy, Angel."

With an exaggerated bow, he thrust his hands in his pockets and began to walk away leisurely.

"Where. Do. You. Think. You're. Going," she managed through gritted teeth.

"Dearest, you'll find you're not dealing with a limp-wristed Weasel anymore. Start accustoming yourself to parting on my terms," he called, without looking back.

He chuckled softly to himself. It had been some time since he'd possessed that degree of control over his relationship with Angelina. Almost ten years, as a matter of fact. Sitting down beside her again, he realized she'd not moved an inch. He stroked her warm cheek, and bent his head to touch his lips to hers briefly.

If he'd somehow managed to maintain control, would she have still chosen to run from him like she did?

No matter, he thought brusquely. He was with her now, and she had no choice but to leave with him. She would wake, he would make her eat, and they would leave for the manor. She looked too far gone to put up much of a fight.

The room had darkened once again, and he found himself straining to see her. His eyes traveled to the window. The sky had become a solidly cerulean blue, only weakly illuminated by the sun just below the horizon.

It was evening now.

()()()()()


	4. The bottom falls out

()()()()()

Sensing in her half-sleeping state that something was wrong, she suddenly woke fully and immediately. So very wrong things were.

Firstly, she was not in her bedroom, not in her makeshift "bed," which was to say, a pile of blankets and pillows on the floor. She was also not feeling clammy all over, and desperately anxious for a shower. The feel of the air on her skin told her it was mid-morning; however a look at frost-coated window a few yards away revealed the icy blue-green luminaria of dawn. But she was actually quite cozy - supported by firm cushions, and draped in semi-permeable heat. She puzzled over the latter for a moment. She distinctly knew the feeling but could not identify the cause. She looked sidewards at her arms and lower body. She lay perfectly uncovered, save for her clothes, upon her yellow paisley sofa. Yet she breathed through her mouth and saw a small steam cloud.

Blimey, it was a heating charm.

It all flooded back to her then - the collapse, her uninvited guest, and her descent into unconsciousness after her initial, amateurish foray into the world of Occlumency...and she remembered who the person casting the long shadow from just above her head must be.

Reluctantly she glanced upwards to meet the much-dreaded topaz gaze.

There was no use hiding behind any metaphysical wall now.

"Feeling better?"

She scowled and rolled her eyes. After drumming her nails against her belly some time and releasing an exaggerated sigh, she replied:

"I'd still like you to leave, and, now."

His porcelain face twisted into a saccharine smile, off-setting the strange glint in his eyes prettily.

"Darling, I think you'd better answer my question before making any requests."

"And why should I? You're in my house, you know. I'm not requesting anything of you. I'm telling you to go. So be off like the good, well-bred boy you are, or I'll be forced to become quite unpleasant."

His face still loomed eerily above her in the dim light - the colour of his eyes electrified, and the brows above them fixed in a decidedly sinister fashion. His intrusion was supposed to scare her, but here she was, feigning indifference and batting him around just as she did before. As though it hadn't been six months since they last laid eyes on each other, in the flesh.

_As they say, desperate measures..._

"It might interest you to know that the newest group of internees at St. Mungo's include one **Frederick Weasley**," he countered, biting off the end of each syllable.

The oxygen seemed to freeze in Angelina's throat. The ensuing disconnect between her brain and her body caused an intense tension in her chest which felt like a veritable explosion when it finally erupted from her lungs.

"He's not better? I...he...will he...?" she stammered uselessly, fighting back the urge to scream, cry and thrash about all at once.

"He's a bloody vegetable."

That was it. She turned over onto her stomach and howled wildly into her pillow. She began to viciously bite and claw, infuriated with whatever abstract force that had allowed this grievous wrong to befall her best friend. Her only remaining friend.

But somewhere inside, she also wished to join him, leaving her miserable reality for good and embracing a superbly holistic numbness. Then again, the guilt and despair she felt realizing the de-facto death of her sweet Fred might well be the catalyst.

Hours later, she finally tired. Her eyelids were red and bloated, allowing her only limited vision. Her head pounded relentlessly as though her various emotions wanted to escape through her skull. Once more, she glanced upwards wearily to see Montague standing over her, a glass of cold water proffered forth from his hand.

She threw it on herself. All over her face and hair, wanting nothing more than to feel it absorb instantly into her skin and somehow normalize the situation. Instead, the water droplets rolled steadily off her smooth cheeks and shoulders and onto the sofa cushions. She began to weep silently.

Shrugging, he pried the glass from her fingers, went into the kitchen and returned again with water.

"This time drink it, Johnson."

()()()()()


	5. Worse and worse

()()()()()

It was mid-afternoon, and blushing sunlight shone brightly through the thin white curtains. Angelina's glass of water sat on the table, empty.

_Worse and worse,_ her mind echoed. It seemed that inside her there was a constant thrumming, a hard beat, the ruthlessness of which must have explained her headache. She saw red, bright orange-red beneath her eyelids, and a finger to her temple told her the drumming might have something to do with that, too. Uneasily, she opened her eyes partially and tried to get a sense of her surroundings. Directly in front of her, an empty glass still lay on the small centre table. The pure azure colour of the mid-afternoon sky shone easily through the ragged muslin curtains. Taking her gaze leftward, she saw Montague slouching back in her padded armchair, arms folded and head rolled off to the side.

With a decidedly sceptical air, Angelina rose and strode towards the bathroom.

Blinking didn't help much to make her vision less bleary. She could only just make out her haggard appearance in the dusty mirror: reddened face, swollen eyelids, hollowed cheeks, and shoulders that jutted out from her gaunt figure like sharp points. Her hair was overlong and straw-like at the ends, with several strands of white hair visible. So, this was the physique that accompanied living in guilt and fear. Not only was she saddled with permanent fatigue, but there was inner pain which ran down to the bone and permeated every pore. Reflecting upon the thought, she wrinkled her nose in distaste. What did she suppose would happen during this time? She lived for solitude, so naturally she forgot to look at herself. She hadn't been ashamed of that fact until _he_ had arrived. Now she was suddenly, predictably embarrassed.

Merlin, she was afraid. She was afraid to leave this place. She ran hard from her old life to come here. This was freedom, wasn't it? This place didn't exist and neither did she. She lived in complete anonymity and silence; the spare nurturing of the earth sustained her. Angelina had no society and society had no claim on Angelina.

These were the bare facts.

()()()()()

Another hour passed. Angelina had returned to the living room and lay sprawled out along the cushions, her slightly tangled hair obscuring most of her face. She looked at him again, still sleeping in the sofa chair opposite and stiffened slightly. So this was his idea of consideration, telling her a dear friend had become dead to the world in the most carelessly insensitive way imaginable. A dear friend, whose accident he knew she blamed herself for entirely. But he had no care for her sense of shame, and none apparently for her escapism either. Still, as it stood, she had been hiding out in a tottery old farmhouse for eleven weeks now. She'd wound up feeling melancholy about family and friends every day of her seclusion; for this reason alone, she was just the tiniest bit grateful that he was there.

Angelina stood and took her glass to the kitchen. She pulled open the curtains and let the warm light hit her face at full intensity. After a minute or so, she felt herself wake up entirely. When she turned around, she found Montague leaning against the door frame, staring at her reproachfully.

"So we've finally pulled ourselves together again, I see."

Angelina curled her lips in contempt. His venom was only worth her most bored response.

"You shouldn't waste time commenting on things you don't understand, Montague."

She brushed past him brusquely then to re-enter the living room. Almost at once, his brows knitted together in a sinister fashion, but his posture did not change.

"Pardon me, love, I hadn't guessed you were proud of being completely crackers."

Relatively unperturbed, Angelina continued reclining on the sofa, even deigning to examine her fingernails. She'd realised she hardly had to expend effort to resist his bait. Without turning to face him, she responded, "We all do need a reason to feel special, don't we?"

Eyes glittering with a hateful expression, he took three long strides to stand in front of her. His agile but powerful hands came to grip her shoulders firmly, and slowly, he lifted her to a standing position.

When she finally gazed upwards to meet his eyes, he gave her a vicious shake, so hard that her hair fell forward and she swore even her brain felt throttled.

"Surely even you can't be this indecent, Angelina. What in Merlin's name do you plan to do with the rest of your life? Cower away from everyone forever? In this wilderness, in a country where you don't even speak the damn language?"

Still reeling, Angelina grimaced slightly and began to gently massage her temples. After a short pause, she spoke but would not meet his eyes.

"I don't wonder about your feelings on the matter," she bit out angrily. "I'm perfectly content here, and it's my choice to stay."

"Drinking and fasting your way through to skeletonhood makes you content?"

Angelina snarled and pushed suddenly at his chest, attempting to dislodge his death grip. He stood fast, hands still clutching her firmly.

"What could have possibly been your objective in coming here?"

He nearly snorted in contempt, and his hands slid down to the narrow curve of her waist.

"I'd like to think my general sense of liberalism allowed for this little exercise of yours in free will, but now, my more pragmatic tendencies have taken hold."

_Ha! This is too much, far too much. _She smiled slowly and gave a throaty, erratic laugh.

"Gods Graham, you're really running out of reasons to gloat, aren't you? The isolation hasn't affected my brain, you know. I'm not about to accept for a moment that a plan that you didn't even know about until I was gone was a somehow gracious allowance of yours."

Her utter impertinence never ceased to irritate him. Still holding her middle, he leaned in unnervingly close to her face, such that the backs of her legs back hit the sofa when she attempted to back away, causing her to look up at him again in fury.

"There are a lot of things I might have done, Angelina, if I hadn't such a damnable lack of conviction in forcing you to do what I want you to do."

Angelina tensed uncomfortably and found her torso was being held completely immobile.

"Oh, I'm terribly frightened. Honestly, do you think I'll allow you to do this? You do know you've never really, actually, controlled me...except in your own head."

"Well, I suppose you will shortly realise that I did, because now, I'm taking you home, personal will be damned."

"Let go of me, Graham. This became boring hours ago. "

A small smile graced his face, but he remained silent, still gripping her tightly.

"Let go!"

Angelina began to punch at his chest and arms with all of her might, soon bringing her legs into the mix, kicking and kneeing at the man in front her. Before long, she felt herself hoisted up and seated on the sofa's arm, Montague nestled in the vee of her dangling legs. One of his hands was creeping up the skirt of her dress, across her thigh to and fro, stroking intimately. His other hand held the back of her neck in place.

Angelina braced herself in alarm and dread, a familiar fiery tension already flooding through her veins. She remembered how this felt, her body recalling the details most keenly of all, and she knew she could not afford to lose any immediate consciousness of the matter at hand. She stayed rooted to the spot, and as his hand began brushing harder across the insides of her thighs, she fought to keep facing his chest. The space between them seemed to be electrically-charged, and the expression on his face spoke plainly enough as to what he expected of her. When it was clear she would not simply surrender to the palpable magnetism between them, he decided to make it impossible. Ceasing their teasing strokes, his agile fingertips reached along further to grasp at the apex of her thighs. Caressing and pulling with a practised flair, they started to create a deliciously harsh friction. Rather abruptly, Angelina's mouth opened of its own accord and several small gasps escaped.

The heat of her embarrassment at her complicity quickly combined with the heat of her desire to suffocate her resistance. She didn't know how to control her reaction to this; she had never known. Ever since their confrontation in dim corner of the Hogwarts library, she'd become attracted to him with such a force that she sometimes mistook it for an all-encompassing fear. She was spellbound by his aggression even now, but managed to stare blankly and hang back away from him, immobile. If she could keep her mind clear of panic and anticipation, she could break with her bodily affliction.

Montague seemed mostly unconvinced by Angelina's stillness, however, paying far more attention to the startled gasps and shivers she was mostly unaware of giving. Still powerfully assaulting her most sensitive parts with his hands, he leaned in close to the hollow of her neck and latched onto the area just below her jawline with his warm mouth. It had been so long; she'd forgotten how his lips, thin and firm as they were, could move so sensuously and tug at her skin as they did. His lips wandered further still, pressing breathy kisses to her chest until he was taking a nipple into his mouth through the thin fabric of her dress. Shaken from her stupor, Angelina made strangled sound and jerked her head back.

This was precisely the wrong thing to do.

He had ceased his ministrations between her legs and withdrew slightly to level Angelina with a scintillating glare, face to face at last. They stayed like that for a moment, glaring at one another, motionless but still touching. The sight of his extraordinarily bright eyes set against his flushed skin and raven hair was literally breathtaking. Breeze wafted easily through the drafty room, accompanied by the subtle scent of olive trees. They must have quite a tableau in her parlour, and she dreaded that soon her depicted figure would be a willing seducee.

Refusing to break eye contact, he slowly slid his hands over more of her body with a frank determination -- over her thighs, along the contours of her graceful arms, and finally to the tops of her shoulders, where they seemed to pause. Steely gaze boring into her resistance more and more dangerously by the second, he nimbly brought the straps of her delicate dress down until they puddled at her waist. Realising something had happened whilst she'd been contemplating his eyes, Angelina instinctively looked down at her herself. Her rapidity of her heartbeat was visible at her pulse point, and her body was even rocking slightly in time with it. A very fine sheen of perspiration covered her skin, the moisture making the slightest movement uncomfortably sticky.

Nowhere was her lack of bodily composure more apparent than where her bosom had been exposed; the well-tanned skin betrayed a deep rosy flush beginning at the valley of her breasts. The moisture and coolness of the room had hardened her dark, protruding nipples, and sitting there as she was, she knew looked every bit the sultry temptress, bidding her lover to indulge. Still dazed from ardour, a tiny spark of mental consciousness made her shake her head. No, she didn't want this scene completed. It hadn't happened like this, it wasn't true. And yet she played the same part, feeling utterly powerless to stop the sadly routine chain of events from occurring. She looked at him, still pristine and overdressed in his oxford and wool vest combination, and the smouldering but still keenly observant gaze with which he regarded her.

Inside of her head, a rebellious spirit banged on mightily: _Get up, get up! You haven't done anything yet! If you just sit here, he'll have you!_ But she had already seen herself. She was the one beckoning to him, freely offering herself -- somehow it had happened this way, and she knew what happened next. She was dissociated, and her body may as well have become a plaster cast cage, in consideration of all the power she had to stop this from happening. _MOVE, MOVE, MOVE! _And her shoulders rocked a little bit again. Angelina looked down at her body once more, and tried to understand how it belonged to her -- the heaving chest, damp skin, and supplicant posture. She kept her head down and tried to think how to move her arms and push off of the seat.

She had just come to feel her fingers form a grip when she noticed Graham pushing the skirt of her dress up, and tangling his fingers in the edges of her panties. The flimsy black fabric came down her long caramel legs and swiftly off at her heels with a snap of his wrist. Merlin, here she was, lain out like a harlot. Far back in her mind, under many layers of sensory experience, anger brewed with a vengeance. He stood there so nonchalantly, slowly and methodically unbuckling his belt, and still staring into her eyes smugly._ Get up...get up! _She seemed to emanate heat and moisture, feeling ever more trapped in a swamp of lust, anger, and confusion. She was wide-eyed and anticipative now of penetration, though the part of her that protested still plotted resistance. It seemed ridiculous to hope there might be some way still to break free from fate and defy him as she had done the night before.

They couldn't be here, this way, and not respond to each other. He bending over her now, licking at her throat and finally matching her nudity. The sight of his formidable member, quite erect and bobbing just above her stomach with each movement seemed to end the scene for her. She closed her eyes. In he plunged, greeted by her slick entrance and with free rein to clutch at her arse as means of gathering his bearings. Angelina remembered to bite into her bottom lip to keep from screaming in relief. The pace was consistent and machine-like from the start, which he knew she preferred, but she showed showed little reaction beyond maintaining her grip on his shoulders and panting for breath. Impetuously, he angled her bottom and re-aligned himself within her to thrust more forcefully. She made some small grunting noises at this, but kept her eyes closed and her face looking away from his.

The efficacy of the rhythm was undeniable, and soon the razor sharp tension was almost broken. Both bodies began to move spasmodically and uncontrollably towards their peak, yet Angelina had hardly let a sound escape. He'd tried everything from forcing her to arch into him, again and again, to biting and suckling at her neck while he thrust energetically. He took in her writhing form again -- the smooth, graceful curves moving so erotically, paired with a facial expression that looked only impatient and harried, at best. She should have been shrieking for his mercy by this point. What had gone wrong? Before he could ponder the thought further, they both gasped deeply and shuddered.

It was over. Angelina opened her eyes and found him still holding her torso intimately against his, a fierce expression on his face that demanded answers to obvious questions. She found it easy to uncoil herself from him now, and rise to her feet. She had succeeded in preserving a distance for herself throughout his seduction and focused wholly on riding out the ache of sensual pleasure. There was no shame, no remorse, no defeat-- nothing present in her mind beyond the feeling of momentary release. Perhaps she would have a fighting chance after all.

Pausing to smooth her dress over legs in mid-stride, she said offhandedly, "And now that we've finished with that bit of recreation, I would still ask you to leave."

()()()()()


	6. Daylight

See author's note at my bio page!

()()()()()

He had followed her out into the back garden but still made no move to leave the premises. He was tired and supposed provoking her further would be useless. They sat a while in silence, and shortly thereafter the warmth of the breaking sun persuaded them both to lay down. Montague's figure, however disheveled, still looked quite out of place outstretched on the grass. He lay only a few metres away from Angelina, behind her as opposed to beside her, conceding enough space for her thoughts of resistance to become irrelevant.

But by this time she had already laid her head and closed her eyes, unmindful of the young man's presence. She focused all of her thought on remembering.

()()()()()

Colourless London. She had felt better and certainly, _looked_ far better during her time there, but the desolation and fear was overwhelming; the city was only a huge black box, hemming her in on all sides. The metallic beat of her feet on the pavement pounded through her brain every day, all day, since the war had ended and Fred's accident shortly thereafter. Angelina hadn't wanted to think, and living in Central London afforded her precisely that opportunity. She walked on and on through the nights, floating from nightspot to nightspot, only caring to stop when she'd found someone's bed to occupy.

It calmed her mind and forced her to focus on a single thing. Intimate bodily contact, ironically something she'd not ever experienced previous to this period in her life, constituted just about the only situation in which she could relate to another person. Her friends and family didn't know the half of it when it came to her nightly activities, and they already wholeheartedly disapproved of her lifestyle based on what they did know. It wasn't that she was ashamed, far from it. She had loved being an Auror and immersed herself totally in the work, in spite of of the punishing schedule and draining physical aspects. She and Fred had been partners, the most efficient in the unit before _it had_ happened. Then it all came undone, and she could only fritter away her time, unsure of how to go about reprising her formerly productive life. For everyone else it seemed that brighter days were ahead in the wizarding world, and time marched forthrightly on into the future. Only Angelina felt she stood alone, still imprisoned by the past.

_"Un Cuba libre, sans glaçons!"_

Discothèque le Donjon had been so crowded that night -- hardly enough space to turn round, witches and wizards from all walks of life dancing and chattering loudly in a foreign tongue. A raucous percussion-based orchestra banged away from main stage while short, spiky-headed gremlin creatures made their rounds with trays of drinks. The air hung so thick with perspiration, smoke, and other strange smells that moving in general was not the best idea. Fighting her way to the exit, Angelina poked her head out and took a gulp of crisp night air. Peering down helplessly at her feet and feeling vomitous, she wondered if her only option was to piss off home. But then, didn't she recall another club just a few blocks up the road? Head still reeling from temporary asphyxiation, she took a few stumbling steps out of the door in what she believed to be the right direction. Somewhere in the back of her mind however, she thought it not a good time to be seen walking unaccompanied in heels and a magenta slipdress.

As she walked further on, her head cleared a little and galvanised her step. The resulting clacking noises making her feel conspicuous, she considered slipping off her shoes and walking in the shadows. Dirty feet weren't nearly as unwelcome as assault. Where had Octave got to? He promised to look after her until she found someone for the night. Possibly he thought she had already left and moved on to the other club. She would find out soon enough.

"Who's chasing you, Johnson?"

Angelina stopped short, and to her own surprise rather immediately recognised the low, smirking tone. Almost afraid of matching the voice with the face, she glanced back behind her and hoped fervently that she was wrong.

There stood Graham Montague, a sight taller and possibly more debonair than when she'd seen him last. The years after the war had treated him well, which his demure but very snug-fitting blue suit and black tie made obvious. Very lean and sporting a neat, even dandyish side part in his extraordinarily dark hair, he seemed to have leapt straight from the society pages. However, Angelina noted, she had heard neither hide nor hair of him since they'd been at school. Did he live abroad?

"Taller and even more handsome than I was in school, you're quite right," quipped Montague to fill the silence, his roving eyes fully drinking in her skimpy attire.

Seeing old schoolmates from Hogwarts easily topped Angelina's list of dreaded events, but then, Montague had certainly not been a friend.

"I'm in a hurry, erm, being that it's so late -- hang on, how did you guess it was me?"

"I thought I spotted you in the club and asked someone for your name."

Ah, so he was here for the nightlife. She'd taken a liking to French men recently, and found the clubs in the Kings Road particularly convenient for keeping encounters with people she actually knew to a minimum. Well, such had been the case before tonight, anyway.

"Enough staring, Johnson. Do you want to come back to mine or not?"

The anxious smile quickly faded from Angelina's face as she realised what his intentions had been in following her out of the club. Scandalous activities with strangers was one thing, but with an old nemesis it was was quite another story.

"Beg pardon?"

His only response to this was to pucker his lips slightly and wink at her.

"Montague, I don't know what you've heard--"

"Johnson, I was_ in the club_, remember? I've been made fully aware of your usual routine."

If Angelina had any remaining shock from having memories of her Hogwarts days clash unpleasantly with her current situation, this last remark jolted her out of it.

"And why is that a black mark on me exactly? I'm not about to change my lifestyle every time I think there's a chance some arsehole will come charging in, making stupid presumptions!"

Montague forcefully took her chin between his fingers to meet his gaze directly.

_"Oui ou non, coquette?"_

Angelina swallowed hard and glared at him stubbornly.

"You are playing a very stupid game," he spoke softly, bringing his face intoxicatingly close to hers. "And you've already been quite lucky thus far not to be murdered, tortured, or raped. But apparently you'd still prefer to play the odds and see if the worst could happen. I'm offering you a relatively safe fuck tonight. Don't be a thick bint about it."

He let go of her chin and folded his arms across his chest. Angelina turned away from him and looked down the road in the direction she had previously been walking. Feeling nauseous again, she placed a hand over her forehead to keep the world from spinning. He was probably right, she wouldn't make it home. More importantly, she still felt a dark tension burrowing deep within her, needing to be blotted out before she could find peace, or sleep.

"All right, Montague," said Angelina sharply, looking up at him sensually with vibrant, sparkling eyes, "Just make it good."

His Portkey deposited them in a tiny brick alleyway just off the main street in the very wet, very cheerless city of Reims.

"I've always got to walk to my final destination, you know, for security purposes," he explained nonchalantly, seemingly heedless of howling downpour.

"Oh, and are you some sort of Ministry spy?" asked Angelina, a brusque sarcasm evident in her voice. But he ignored this question, as well as the rest of the remarks she made as he tugged her insistently along the road. They passed briefly through the city centre, and then old, battered grey stone prevailed everywhere. Several drab bastions towered forebodingly amongst centuries old imperial façades in the area that became visible as the pair approached in the darkness. By the time they reached the stone steps of the entryway, the weather had intensified so severely that he was only just able to grip her hips through her soaked dress to stop her falling when her heel slipped.

The interior of the small château was a simple but distinguished affair; fumed oak wood paneling with a rather generous amount of iron accents. She decided it was sober and dignified in a reassuring way. Her thought was promptly derailed when Montague seized her shoulders and threw his body against hers, which in turn hit the door with a thud. She heard fabric tear and looked down wearily. Covering the top of her cleavage with short, firm kisses, he swiftly reached to pull down her dress and rub her bare back indulgently. Angelina's eyes fluttered open and shut intermittently as her head seemed to throb in time with the storm. Relatively safe she was perhaps not, but she was also too tired and desperate for release to make any pretense at respectability. She wrapped her lifeless arms about his neck as he bit lightly at her neck and fondled her with keen hands, til he realised her body had gone almost entirely slack. Pausing to hoist her slim form bride-style into his arms, he carried her slowly up the stairs.

When the bitter morning had come, the taste of it caught her like lemon at the back of the throat. Angelina had embarked on a quite gentle, nurturing sleep afterward from which she'd very reluctant to awaken. Completely submerged under the voluminous folds of the bedclothes, she struggled to find an opening to escape. Somehow instinctively feeling that it was very late in the day, she hastily kicked out of bed. Hugging an errant sheet to her chest, she began wandering about the room in search of her dress.

She jumped a little when she heard a cool voice address her.

"Is there a glimmer of a chance you could quicken the pace, Johnson? It's only the fact that I tend to do things during the day that make being constrained by your schedule rather inconvenient."

When she turned, she saw Montague seated in an austere leather chair at the window, an open copy of _L'Oracle mondial _in his lap.

Angelina steeled all of her nerve and resolved to respond in a measured tone.

"Give me half a moment to get dressed, then find a suitable broom to loan to me so I can fly from here -- "

"No, not from this location," he snapped, brushing a heavy flap of hair off of his forehead in irritation. "I will accompany you back to the alleyway in the square, and then you may leave from there."

"Fine, fine," she mumbled, suddenly feeling deeply embarrassed that she'd ever tried it on. The expression of discomfort on his face spoke volumes; he obviously regretted the previous night. "Didn't you have a good time?" she ventured unwisely.

He glanced up at her dismissively before smiling down at his newspaper in a sinister fashion.

"Well, I was amazing, as could be expected, but all you could seem to do was flop round like a dying fish. I wonder whether it's just my good luck or if you're always so exciting in bed?"

_Gods, his gall. _She should have known she wouldn't survive the morning afterward with any sort of dignity.

"Yes, well, having been well sloshed last night, I wouldn't have cared if had been you or any of a dozen men at the end of it. Whatever was so amazing I honestly can't even remember, so...c'est la vie and all that," she snarled, almost out of breath with exasperation

"A sterling reflection on your character, I'm sure. Hurry, I want to get moving."

A light smattering of rain and heavy fog prevailed over the noontime scenery; the pallid sun hung behind grey clouds and provided very little comfort.

Montague transfigured a long fawn-coloured trench coat for Angelina to cover up her shabby dress, and they both wore dark, broad-rimmed sunglasses following his evident desire to travel incognito. Curiously, they matched each other's surly looks and crisp weekend attire so perfectly that had they been in any other mood, bystanders would have easily presumed them to be a young married couple. Instead, the apparently oblivious pair attracted lingering stares as they argued viciously during most of the mid-length walk from the Montague estate to the square.

"I know the rest of the way, I've already said! Fuck off, will you?!" Angelina screeched loudly, not yet feeling the least bit self-conscious. Feeling her emotions reach full tumult, she started to walk away hurriedly towards the alley, now in her view.

"Anxious to waste the rest of your day waiting for nightfall? An admirable step-up from your Ministry career, I must say!" he called in retort.

Breathing visibly heated puffs of breath into the draughty air, she reeled in her rebellious impulses and turned to regard him eye-to-eye.

"I didn't know you were such a gossip, Graham. Unfortunately, there isn't time enough in the world to use all the profanities I would like to express just how much that is none of your fucking concern. So, "that's none of your fucking concern" will have to suffice!"

She twirled on her heel and perfunctorily resumed her departing walk.

"Angelina," Montague spoke stiffly, using an especially cold tone, "**Case No. 73056B **is in fact my concern. Perhaps even the most pressing one at the moment."

She stopped now but refused to turn round, the realisation that Montague was with the Ministry somehow failing to reconcile with the computations of her brain.

"Yes, you're still an Auror, or have you forgotten?" he drawled, stalking towards her. "It doesn't look very good for you, now does it? Having sponged away six months already?"

She heard his voice next right against her ear.

"Come on, you can make it a few more steps."

In frighteningly familiar fashion, he pulled her along until they were again within the confidence of the wet, dingy walls of the alley.

"How -- what do you know about my case?"

"The Ministry appreciates the fact that you have been under considerable emotional duress since your colleague's accident. We have granted you this suspension from your case work to aid in your complete recovery. However, owing to your non-communication, the option of a judgment of **intractability** has become available --"

"You -- you're investigating me," she broke in abruptly, her voice faltering. She stood backed against the damp wall, clutching the shrunken broom in her coat pocket with a death grip. "I can remember the contents of my suspension notice well enough. Get to the point."

Unblinking, he continued, "You were aware of the expected duration of commitment before you became an Auror. The Ministry will have no choice but to deem your case intractable if your recovery time exceeds the designated period."

The statement hit her as though she'd tried to catch a pile of bricks with her chest; she tried vainly to keep her face from crumpling instinctively. He'd probably haul her off in a moment if he sensed she was becoming hysterical. Maybe that had been the plan all along; he'd planned her to dispose of her at the case evaluation, but not before he'd shagged her to sate his curiosity.

"I can't go back now, not without Fred," she whispered softly, not certain she was speaking aloud.

"Intractable is the quite the same as hopeless, Angelina," he said matter-of-factly, tucking his arms behind his back with gentlemanly poise. "In light of the training you received, intractable means **finished**. I think you know what I mean."

Something flashed in her eyes then that finally alerted him to her acute level of agitation.

"For fuck's sake Johnson, don't panic," he warned sternly, extending a hand to bring her away from the wall.

Shaking her head slowly and moving away from him, she pulled the miniature broom from her pocket and quickly cast the spell to restore it to its full size. After boarding the smooth ebony number, she took a last fleeting look at him and kicked off into the air with impressive alacrity. She was convinced more than ever now of the need to put as much distance as possible between the two of them. She would not be forced back into her career now, when so many questions were still unanswered, particularly with regard to Fred. Briefly she entertained the notion of simply continuing to run from him. It wouldn't do for him to report on her case at all if she suddenly went missing without explanation. Chewing on that relatively bracing thought, she pressed the unwieldy vehicle for even more speed.

Arriving at her flat and customarily shutting the door with the back of her heel, she sat herself down on the chaise without even bothering to take off her coat. She guessed Montague was in at Harry's office now, giving him a comprehensive list of reasons why she should never be allowed to step foot in the Auror unit again. Just thinking about facing her younger superior's pacifying gaze made her cringe. His initial touching concern for her had probably long ago advanced into grave worry. Possibly he would even decide to forcibly intern her in St. Mungo's. She sighed deeply and tried to run a hand through the irredeemably tangled strands that she'd created during her whirlwind ride home.

She couldn't be an Auror anymore. No, of course not. Not when she felt herself slowly losing the ability to do everything she valued most.

Strolling over to inspect the contents of a mostly bare cabinet, Angelina selected a slim bottle of dark sherry and poured a somewhat immodest amount into a dainty glass.

With startlingly apt timing, a distinctive tapping noise sounded from in the front room. Angelina met an exquisitely large tawny owl at the window which dropped a petite scroll from its elegant, tapering claws into her waiting hand. After taking another careless swig of her drink, she unrolled it hastily and read:

_"__I do apologise for my earlier behaviour. __We shouldn't have slept together.__ I'm in Hertfordshire now. Come to me or I'll find you."_

()()()()()

Some hours had passed since Angelina first laid down, but the ambient heat wore on undiminished. A spirited breeze roused her, and she started to squirm restlessly under the brilliant sun. The rich glare granted her a jaundiced view of the courtyard, including the slumbering form of a certain young man not far from her. Recalling her vivid dream, she considered that her grim escape from confrontation had only been the first of many. She thought she had contrived some sort of long-term solution to her troubles by switching countries, but her condition hadn't changed. Her terrible fear remained, however much she longed to numb herself into nothingness. At the same time, a primal part of her refused to relinquish her claim on the life she'd planned before Fred's accident. She still waited for impossible miracles. She wondered then if it would have been so terrible if Montague had put a wand to her head that day. It would have only taken an instant for her to meet awful darkness; darkness which would finally end the torturous, unflagging battle within her, darkness which would hide her from her own poisonous shame.

Yet she looked up and saw only endless daylight.

()()()()()


	7. Vermillion

Author's note: Sorry it's been so long! (Again). More planned to come soon.

()()()()()

The days passed hazily, one almost blurring into next for Angelina. Then suddenly one morning, she had an eight o'clock meeting with Harry at the Ministry of Defense. An admirably wizened yet still able-bodied owl had come brutally early that morning to peck incessantly at her kitchen window. Predictably, Harry had heard she was back. The message contained no reprimand, no veiled warnings - this was, after all, Harry. The tone was imperative regarding the meeting but mentioned nothing of her absence. Despite having disappeared without permission for six months, Angelina was still an active-duty Auror. This meeting meant she would have to resume her last case, the case she and Fred had failed to solve. An accident during the investigation had led to his illness. That accident lead to Angelina's abnegation of her Auror duties. That accident left Angelina wondering what she could possibly do with the rest of her life. She couldn't let the case go; doing so went against everything she stood for as an Auror. But she couldn't pretend to be all right. She hadn't realized how much of a bastion of strength Fred was for her until too late. He had died. He may as well have died. She had no reliable chance of reconnecting with the Fred she'd known for so many years ever again. The loss of that crucial support meant her exile. Or did it?

Montague might judge her lazy and self-serving, but what sort of glass pedestal of moral superiority did he stand upon? Harry would guilelessly tell her that she could press on through anything. George, her old friend with whom she hadn't spoken for so many months, would tell her what he always told her, the mantra he shared with his brother: the most important thing to do is what makes you happy. Somewhere in the pit of her perpetually unsettled stomach, Angelina knew synthesizing all of these pieces of advice was in order if she was ever going to make a life for herself without Fred. The encouraging words were not any more swallowable than Montague's acid, to be sure. She wanted no great and lofty task whilst she felt no resources to tackle the problem. She didn't care for the bewildered looks and disappointed sighs that resulted from her announcing her boundaries, that she had emotional baggage carrying over from the accident, and her sincere recommendation of another, readier person for the job. She didn't want any of that. But there was one fact that she'd long ignored, one fact that handily obliterated all other concerns, at least according to Fred and George School of Life, and that was that her work as an Auror was much more than a duty. Although Fred was gone, she still loved her work. She loved being an Auror, and Harry's message had brought as much relief to her as her return had (probably) brought to him. Swirling fizzy water in a plain goblet briefly before tossing back a Pepper-Up potion pill, Angelina leaned forward over the kitchen sink, in case she vomited. Damn things never did manage to go down smoothly for her. As the nausea subsided, she paused and slowly stood upright.

The ends, breakdown or no, justified the means.

()()()()()

Airy, sterile, and teeming with busybodies, the glass-enclosed offices of the Ministry seemed to actually gleam with the light of the mid-morning sun. Little had changed since Angelina last visited her boss to pick up her packet of directives for that last fatal mission with Fred. Occasionally pausing and weaving through the veritable moving body of bureaucracy, she finally reached Harry's office, knocking lightly and quickly running a hand over her hair. While she'd cracked up and spent a long holiday, this machine had continued on with pristine efficiency, holding the world above (so to speak) up so reliably, one couldn't help but take it for granted. Of course, that was the underlying theme of the postwar period. This was no longer cause for childish fear nor the rescue of extraordinary heroes. So-and-so was allowed to have his petty personal problems, this machine took care of the bigger ones. All of the people around her knew their roles in this process and were, before her eyes, fulfilling their duties; doing what was asked because it needed to be done.

She felt like more a child than ever.

"Miss Johnson, what a lovely surprise!" Harry's spritely young secretary exclaimed.

"Yes, Amicus, hello. Is he ready for me?"

"Of course! Go right in. He's just wending through some paperwork I left on his desk."

Angelina stifled a chuckle at this. Harry was never very suited to the banalities of trying to sort out work for his Aurors on paper. There was never another wizard yet better suited to the task of strategy once the ball got rolling, of course, but the Head Auror benefitted greatly from a careful verbal analysis from a trusted advisor. Someone terribly detail-oriented and decidedly theoretical, like Ravinia Ravenclaw, for instance. Or even a more versatile and through-going Auror like Angelina herself.

She approached the imposing steel door to Harry's office with a long, deep breath. Her last one before she got back to work. She had only to push on the knob; the door was already ajar.

"Angelina!"

She couldn't help but smile at seeing the dark-haired wizard's face light up. With his glasses having slid too far down his nose and scratching the back of his neck in irritation, Harry had glimpsed her for barely a second in the doorway before shouting her name. The warmth in his voice was immediately soothing. She knew now why she had taken off with no explanation. She would have never been able to look Harry in the eye and tell him she wanted to resign.

"Harry," she managed slowly and apologetically, taking the plush seat just in front of his desk.

"Angelina! I'm so glad you're here. That case you and Fred left off on has just been festering since you've been gone. We've got nine additional disappearances and two deaths linked to it. Do you want Amicus to set you up in new office now or would you rather work in the fishtank? The old Auror offices were knocked down when they expanded the east wing. If you'd like, Petra - that's our new recruit, she's just outside there, in the wintergarden - can go over each of the case file updates to bring you up to speed. I suppose -"

"Harry, hello, sorry, I'm just not quite well-enough situated yet to get started," she blurted out all at once, more loudly than originally intended. "...I mean, I just wanted to ask if I could have a bit of time, perhaps a few days to re-adjust -"

"Well, how much time would you need? Once I heard you were back, I arranged for all the information we had to be flown here and organized for you to look over. We've got first-level agents sorting through it now. I told them you'd start this afternoon and be ready to brief them on their duties tonight. If you'd like to take the night, I suppose, we could -"

"Ah Merlin, confound it," Angelina muttered disconcerted, fishing in her bag for the travel-sized Draught of Peace potion-pills in her bag.

"How often are you popping those things, Angelina?"

Once she'd opened her eyes and settled her focused on a worried-but-patient-looking Harry, standing in the corner with folded arms, she swallowed to catch her breath.

"Oh, you know, it's just...settling in, nerves and things. I can't exactly - well, obviously this isn't the place to go looking for a stiff drink -"

"So you're drinking every day as well?"

"Daily? Oh no, not...well...on occasion. What I've been trying to say I'm not quite up to snuff at the moment. I know it's been such a long time and I'm sorry. I want to be forthright about this."

Harry's eyelids fluttered down as he tried to avoid looking her, but he did not let down his arms.

"Well, how long do you think you would need?"

"Harry - it's - look, I'm not well, can't you see that? I've been gone for nearly six months, during most of which I wasn't sure I'd ever recover. I would've thought you replaced me by now. I can only assume this is all - she gestured towards the messy pile of papers on his desk - your way of being an exceptionally good friend to me and wanting me to keep my job."

At this Harry shook his downcast face slowly, paused, and ran a hand down his miserably sore back. Sometimes it was just hard to believe she was as smart as he knew her to be at times when she seemed to insist on being thick.

Striding over to the front of his desk, Harry shoved his hands in his pockets in some frustration and sat down. He rubbed his chin a bit and finally looked to Angelina's face, brow furrowed in concentration.

"Angelina, as long as I've known you, you've always known what to do. Always. Maybe you're doubting yourself now, because you've lost Fred, but deep down, you know what you need to do. And you know you're the only one to do it. Merlin's teeth, my first year playing Quidditch all I did was try to imitate you! I'll tell you, it wasn't your speed, your agility, or the fact that at the time you were almost a foot taller than me. It was your overall, I don't know, Merlin help me, savvy. You improvised where Wood went by the playbook. You never used a dirty foul to win points. You looked for available opportunities and went for them. And when you went hurtling down to the ground, it didn't deter you much from the next match. You didn't take your role in the game personally. Winning stayed the objective, not an imperative. When you saw the game for what it was, you were like a machine. Where's that gone, ay?"

She'd listened intently to the younger boy's touching recollection for as long as she could and then hid her face in her hands once the tears started to roll down her face. "Merlin, what had she left? Probably an even bigger mess than any mess imaginable? Why hadn't she expected to be the one to mop it all up eventually?

"Angelina, I'm sorry...please don't...please...stop -"

He was kneeling before her chair now, gently tugging her arm away from her face.

"Oh Harry, I'm the one who's sorry, don't apologize to me again, I can't stand it," she warbled through sniffling tears.

"Well, what I am supposed to -"

"Harry," Angelina said again slowly, wiping both eyes with the back of her hand. "Harry, I'm all right now. I just needed...maybe I needed to know that was what you thought of me. I know I can do this. I need some time in an office of my own, alone, but I'll be ready for a briefing from your new recruit after lunch. If you could leave the updated case files with me to look over before then, I'd appreciate it."

The young man's eyebrows shot up quizzically at her sudden transformation.

"Certainly, Angelina, just give me a few moments to chat with Amicus about getting your office ready."

()()()()()


	8. Memory

_Note: Thanks to all of you still reading this story; I haven't expressed my gratitude nearly enough for all of your input. The kind words of encouragement have really been touching and certainly, unexpected. I can honestly say these new updates probably never would have struck me without them, so keep them coming! :)_

()()()()()

Grey, empty windows set against a grim, troubled sky were all Angelina glanced from outside her office window. Her cold, hard desk had not warmed any against the skin of her legs, now covered in goose pimples. She shifted some in her stiff seat in a vain effort to ease it into a reclining position. Defeated, she slumped over, put her head down and closed her eyes.

Clear light, warm and welcoming streamed through partial clouds as she ran, Fred chasing close behind, just barely clasping the hem of her jumper as she rounded a doddering old elm in the back of the Weasleys' garden. Tucked away in the Burrow's small apple orchard, they ran for what seemed like hours, the gentle sun never waning and bathing them in warmth. Angelina kept running until it was clear her capture was imminent. She then turned and heaved mightily into his chest, and they both tumbled down to the soft grass. Giggling uncontrollably between gasps for air, they rolled round like dumbfounded animals. Lounging lazily in the prodigious shade, George was too disinterested to even be bothered to look up.

How happy she remembered feeling at that moment, how perfectly she seemed to belong there, in that place, at that time. With _him_. They never had to try, every familiar moment seemed to happen naturally and of its own accord. This was how it was supposed to be. Lying there, side by side and kissing and touching playfully as the summer hours wore on, Angelina imagined this as the rest of her life. A simple, but beautiful life she could almost read as promised in those twinkling blue eyes and quirky grin. How obvious it was that they should be together.

Flash forward to the present. Angelina eyed the stack of papers she'd separated from the others from the outset warily. Those were the papers detailling Fred's accident. She hardly needed to read about it when she could still so easily revisit that terrible night whenever she wished. Sometimes bits and pieces came to mind without warning. The acrid white smoke filling their nostrils, and Fred, having hastily run ahead first, falling over the railing. Her loud scream, ringing through the night, then the sound of her own frantic footsteps as she raced back to the gate for Neville and the others. They found Fred at the bottom of the pier, blood streaming from his nose and mouth set in a morbid, thin line as though he was already dead. Ominous black waves of sea rollicked to and fro around them, set against an ink-blue night sky. It was at that moment Angelina remembered feeling swallowed whole by the next ugly chapter of her life. Fred was gone, and the indeterminate future loomed over her.

Cut back to the present. She sighed and re-stacked the papers concerning Fred lightly and put them in the locked drawer of her desk. Swivelling around matter-of-factly, she surprised herself by remaining calm at the sight before her.

"Potter let me in."

Promptly rolling her eyes as though to remark, "Well, obviously," she leaned back in her chair and clasped her hands in her lap.

"This is a private office," turned out to be all she could manage.

Now it was Montague's turn to roll his eyes.

"You're still my charge, Johnson. Potter knows I brought you back last time and more or less, I've brought you back this time. You're to report to me whether you've decided you fancy independence now or not."

Gritting in her teeth in an ever-familiar position, Angelina fought to hold back her fury. If there was a condescending way to word an otherwise simple sentence, _he _would find it.

"Fine, what do I have to do? I need to get back to work."

Trying to hold back his surprise at her sudden gesture of cooperation, he gave her a sharp look with piercing eyes that attempted, as ever, to see right through her.

"Be at the manor at eight o'clock. I'll give you instructions then." Having scarcely finished his sentence, he abruptly turned and was gone through the thin glass door of her office.

Angelina let her head fall back and sighed for what felt like the hundredth time that day. Had she really not put it past him to use his position as an Unspeakable to get her back in his bed? Here she had run from him twice, and he'd practically begged her like some sort of distraught lover to come home the last time they'd spoken. Now that she'd decided she wanted her job back, he apparently was not above using it to get things back under his control.

Well, how bad could it get? She wasn't exactly thrilled about the glum central London bedsit she'd had to take in the interim when she'd first moved back a few weeks ago. Montague's luxe Watford manor had certainly had its perks. She supposed her room was still there...and their bedroom, of course, with _him_ in it at night. Gods, what was she thinking? She had run from him all those months ago because she was unhappy and he refused to open up emotionally and let her in.

She couldn't see herself nor her future clearly enough to concentrate on her work or cope with the loss of Fred in her life. Now she had the chance to build herself up from the foundation, to unravel this mystery once and for all, and even re-imagine a new future with someone who could be honest with her. To be frank, she could not say honesty was a strong suit of Fred's, either. They had always spent too much time joking and dreaming to actually get to know one another. They had fit together because well, they just seemed to fit together. In the long term, Angelina knew it would not always be so easy.

Pulling the Pepper-Up potion pills out of her bag again, she paused and closed her eyes. What if Montague had made her happy in some twisted way that made her deeply uncomfortable in the pit of her stomach? What if, for all his hard-heartedness and almost total lack of sentimentality, he had given her, a sense of purpose, perhaps? He was an excellent lover, cool and calculating to the last, wrenching every bit of pleasure from her body but still reacting gutturally to her own ministrations enough to make her feel womanly. Sex wih Fred had all the charm of a girl's first great love, the harried fumblings, and even ripping of clothes when they were both worked up enough.

She'd felt hot, hungry, and wanted by Fred, who incidentally, had a rather hearty appetite. Quick, rough, and hard was how they'd always played it, much like they played quidditch, now that she thought about it. Bedding Graham had been something more of a sophisticated affair, the teasing foreplay giving way to a maddeningly slow burn of a finale, which seemed to last all night. Each subtle caress seemed to lead to another and another, until they both drifted off, sated and undone. No matter how much he humiliated her in the morning, she knew his comely moans and laboured breathing betrayed how he really felt.

When she reached the manor, it was raining lightly and she'd come wearing the trench coat she'd nicked from him that first night they spent together. She didn't care if he noticed, although she had to be honest with herself and admit that wearing it another naive way of trying to get closer to and understand the man it belonged to. Three succinct knocks at the front entryway, and she looked around. The place still looked the same - beautiful, slightly forbidding, and almost certainly empty. Graham had no living family to speak of save a few cousins, and she'd never enquired as to how he felt about them. What she did know was that he was perpetually alone, by choice.

"Angelina," came a deliciously low, male voice from behind the heavy oak door. He was wearing a dark green jumper and charcoal slacks, pulled together and casual, his soft brown hair combed back neatly and down the sides. Without another word he led her inside, taking her coat (his, rather) and walking to the first floor parlour. They were greeted by a room done in all soft cream colours and a crackling fire at the center wall. Gesturing that she should sit, he pulled a steaming cup of tea from off a silver tray sitting on the piano bench.

"Your room is as you left it," he began soberly, eyes carefully avoiding hers.

()()()()()


	9. Dark hours

()()()()()

"I stayed here for a while," she started slowly. "I hardly had a room."

His eyelashes flickered for a moment but he did not cast his gaze down at her relatively meaningless comment. She kept a room in his house, did she?

"What does it matter? The room you stay in, the room which belongs to you is your room. Are you ready only to return to the case or life in general, yet?"

There he was again, taunting her immaturity.

"I came here because you threatened me. You already knew that."

"Yes, that's what I'm always forced to do to get you to do anything, isn't it Angelina?"

At this she rolled her eyes, and tossed her head back slightly, her hands burrowed deep in the coat's pockets. It was impossible to get comfortable in this conversation.

He smiled winsomely at this and stared at her, long and hard, all fidgety and twisting to and fro against the confines of his trenchcoat. The coat she hadn't known he had given to her.

"Harry's said there are two more deaths linked with the case. I was just going over the case files for the first time when you...stopped in."

His hands remained calmly folded in his lap, and his expression was unreadable.

A smile curving lazily at the corners of his elegant lips, he enunciated smoothly, "I wouldn't take it to personally if I were you, dearest, considering Potter knows full well none of your devastatingly brave Gryff colleagues would touch this case with a ten-foot-pole after you and Weasley cracked up."

Not trusting her ears and sure she was being set up for an ego-crushing fall, Angelina pursed her lips and reached for one of the still visibly steaming cups of tea on the table opposite to her.

"I venture to say I'm still racking my brain for the reason they wouldn't assign anyone else in my place," she murmured softly. "I'm just trying to keep my head above water, here, all right."

"That's not good enough this time, Johnson. And it's true, nothing you do is ever good enough. Get used to it. You're too sensitive and you've wasted enough of my time as it is."

"Well, that's such a tremendous vote of confidence I'm already worrying about my ability to justify it," she began snidely. "Believe me, there's nothing I want more than to be out of your hair and minding my own business. Or don't you have some young hussy waiting in the winds to attend to?"

He smiled ever more broadly at this. So she had heard, at least. George had probably told her that he'd entertained a certain young Slovenian witch from Pansy Parkinson's modelling agency while she'd been away. She was a fairly recognizable face, and had appeared in many notable campaigns, including one for the Weasleys' joke shop only a few months earlier.

"What's that got to do with anything, Angelina?"

It was a trick. Of course it was. He wanted to probe the depths of her jealousy for his own perverse satisfaction, get at how much she knew before having the time of his life torturing her with it.

"Get to the point, Graham, or I'm walking out of here now."

"You're not going anywhere without my say so, Johnson. Potter's orders, or did he neglect to share that juicy tidbit with you during your almost certainly tearful reunion?"

Angelina tried desperately not to let her expression betray her shock. Harry had something to do with Montague staying on her case? He was the one keeping her here? No, not Harry.

"It just so happens I couldn't care less whose say so it is. Get to the point, or I'm leaving."

Montague stood up at these words, his lean frame straightening sleekly, and a mocking smirk spread slowly across his face.

"As a matter of fact, I should be getting ready retrieve Natalija later this evening," he purred, his voice oiled to perfection. "I just wanted to make clear to you that you have precisely three weeks to clear this business with Potter's unit or I'm putting your case up as intractable."

"_WHAT?_ How the bloody hell are _you_ empowered to judge me as intractable? I've returned to the Ministry! Harry let you do this?"

"Potter had no choice, so go easy on the poor sod when you storm into his office tomorrow morning. You'd already met the criteria for dereliction of duty before I'd come to your little Spanish hideaway that night to knock some sense into you. Potter had the option of asking for your reassignment to another Unspeakable, however, and he chose not to."

Angelina backed away from him slowly, watching his eyes shine with delight at her terror. She wanted some corner to cower away into already. Harry, Harry, how could you?

"Three weeks," she croaked, her voice hoarse with panic. "You're going to give me just three weeks."

"Three weeks, Angelina. And I was about to generously offer you your room back, should you want it, instead that of that hole in northcenter London you fancy calling home. But, judging by the standards of your last residence, I suppose your tastes just naturally run along in that vein."

Why was he doing this? Why was he being allowed to do this? Why was she always just barely dangling by a thread that he was waiting to snip away?

She no longer deluded herself that he might just be obsessed with her. No, this game they played was different. Montague was a man of leisure, and he only played gentlemen's games. He was doing this out of boredom and disillusionment with his lot in life. They had always shared that. She should have been happy with Fred, he was supposed to have Malfoy's drive and ambition, and instead they had grown up to be themselves, in spite of the expectations that had been built up for them. Instead, they floated out between the vestiges of the people they were in school and some amorphous thing they had to look to as the future. Montague, however, had never tired of plucking at her confidence where it hurt the most. Whether she was shit at quidditch or a rubbish lay, _or_, just inches from death, he took the same perverse delight in telling her.

At last she managed, "For fuck's sake then, what is it that you want me to do?"

"Move back in, Johnson, if only so I can keep an eye on your more self-destructive tendencies. As you yourself have suggested, get this case out of my expertly coiffured mane. Then I'll leave you alone. If that's what you really want, of course. "

She meditated on this for a moment, closing her eyes and attempting a deep breath in. Living with Montague was decidedly easier, in some ways. She hadn't yet mastered the finer points of living on her own, keeping the place clean, the bills paid on time, and so on. Montague had taken care of all of these things during their last stint together without so much as nagging her about it once. It seemed that all he asked was that she be there, accounted for and able to put up with his unending harassment as he saw fit. If there was some casual intercourse here and there to further inflate his ego, was it really so bad? She was a woman, was she not? The last six month long dry spell she'd experienced had taken its toll. Montague was not so repugnant as her conscience wanted her to believe, she knew. If she lived with him for a time, letting him handle the practicalities of resettling her life, what did she have to lose?

"Well, Angelina, one would almost think you're deep in thought, for once. Are you starting to see the wisdom of my proposal?"

She rolled her eyes and looked around the spacious parlour again; neglecting to respond. Could she really live here again? Could she stand the constant condescension and perhaps even the late-night romps that left her feeling so empty and void in the morning? What of this other girl? Could she continue to control what she considered to be her well-concealed jealousy long enough to get what needed to be done, done?

"If I do agree to live with you again, Graham, you will need to submit to a blood oath swearing not to enter my mind, ever again."

At this, he paled, taken well off-guard. He had been scissoring his long, elegant fingers together in impatient anticipation of her response, and suddenly stilled then. If he hadn't just barely remembered himself, he would have let his eyebrows raise and his mouth form a prim "O". She would try to have him swear a blood oath? He had entered her mind though legilmency just as he wold for anyone he consented to live alongside - for his protection as well as her. He had made no secret to her of having entered her mind; he did everything from having her meals prepared as he knew she would like them to directing their romantic interludes along the lines of things he'd seen in her mind. He knew these sorts of things unnerved her and yet he'd hoped she was sensisble enough to see the benefits.

"Every Montague in my bloodline has practised legilmency on those who enter their dwellings, Angelina. Tonight you allowed me to see that you did not want to discuss our living together, and just how afraid you are of being deemed intractable. I'm sure you guessed I knew all of this already yet I know you possess the tools to block my efforts. What other secrets are there that you would expect to keep whilst laying by my side at night?" he asked, his already deep voice taking on a darker dimension.

Angelina's brow furrowed and she closed her eyes again. _I'm not hiding anything, Graham. That's not the point. _

"My mind is my own, Montague. Despite knowing what you would do with the information, I'm not your plaything, or some puzzle you can piece through to pass the time. You practically have my life on file back at the Ministry. What you can find is not the point. The point is, I draw the line at giving over my mind to you. It's not yours, it's mine. I left you the last time, in part because I wanted to belong entirely to myself again. You've always thought you could control me by reminding me how hopeless and pathetic I already feel, but that's never been more than a dim reflection of how little I cared for my life in the first place. I care now, Graham, and I won't let you take that away from me."

Knuckles turning white from the clenched fists he was making in his lap, he looked to her with a venomous look flashing in his eyes.

"You know I can't let you live here without the benefit of entering your mind, Angelina," his voice betraying a dangerous edge. "And you'd do well to examine the likelihood of my letting you run around London just as you like, when previous to you I had perfect record of setting Aurors back on track. I won't make an exception for you."

"Then it appears we have nothing more to discuss," she said grimly, clutching her coat tighter around her waist and turning to enter the main hall.

"Angelina! You're not finished with this conversation," he called after her retreating figure. "You can expect to see me in your office tomorrow morning to finish it!"

Standing at the doorway, her gaze wandered to the luxurious garden at her feet, delicate petals being pelted by raindrops, and slowly up to the impressive Gallic façade being blurred by the storm. Such a lovely home, she thought, in spite of the brutal restrictions set up upon all who would live there. She could still see the light emanating from the room where she had sat with him. As she again glimpsed the enormous manor through a backward glance over her shoulder, wondering about the man inside, she could see little but darkness and rain.

()()()()()


	10. Une saison volée

()()()()()

"Who are you?" she asked, eyes focused on her own reflection, staring dully and without emotion.

Was she the amalgam of all her experiences, those painful memories she could not release? A frail shadow of her spunky childhood self? Certainly, she was still an Auror in the eyes of her friends and colleagues. The two perceptions could not be reconciled; but which won out? The overwrought reflections haunted her daily - over-thinking and under-experiencing; thoughts that led only to more thinking. She was unfit for the exercise. Her soul yearned to act, and her paralysis dishonoured her. Had she wanted all this at eleven, upon being placed in Gryffindor? Duty may be chosen, but it is not the right of the bearer to end. She had forgotten these essential parameters for action. She'd forgotten she had nothing to earn, only to do.

Turning to the extensive list of suspects in front of her, she sighed, almost weeping. It'd been put together by a meekly adoring junior staff, whose enthralled glances and lingering extended palms she'd missed in matter-of-factly taking the files from them.

A functionary can be brave in relentless pursuit of the successful trial which accomplishes the previous un-achievable objective. She had that ability, to be both strategist and agent, something both Montague and Fred lacked. Every agent had personal motives which could wreak havoc on the group's carefully planned course of action - ill-conceived improvisations and secret dealings were the Ministry's justification for Unspeakables and Aurors to monitor each other as appropriate.

Her name meant nothing unaccompanied by first, the House Shield of Gryffindor, second by a hair's breadth, her Auror's badge. Bravery and duty fueled the fire of the only spirit left within her. The other feelings filled in the blanks, the helplessness of others to resolve this case, her unavenged tragedy in losing Fred, and the bloodless, substanceless co-habitation with Montague, who attacked, with indeterminate sincerity, all she had ever done (but not longed for). She would wither away without this duty; she'd known that from the moment she realised Fred would not wake, and the pervasive intensity with which she waited for the witch or wizard responsible to be identified, naturally accompanied by, but unmatched by the memory of loss. She could think ahead if only he was there, if only he could be there, but the impregnable fact that her Fred had gone was something she instantly accepted. If he had woken, she would have the same drive to be on this case, as he did not, she felt shame at not spending more time at his bedside, with the Weasleys, or devoting herself to a new cause of caring for the invalid. A witch was not to take up arms for, and in place of the wizard she had given her heart. He was alive and merited everything she had to give even in his limited capacity, or so she shamed herself into believing. But this soon proved impossible. So she put it off, and tried vainly preoccupying herself with mindless decadence. Then the lines between the real and imaginary blurred so thoroughly she had almost fallen asleep that fateful night in Montague's tight embrace.

When he touched her, she felt strange - she had nothing but quite literally, the agony of guilt and lost happiness to draw upon, and certainly Montague's mouth worked against her ego. But his touch was dizzying, enveloping, and seducing - powerful but certainly not reassuring - a sensual promise that lingered in the space between them but did not betray any true intimacy. They did not understand each other any better after a year together, when their dialogue was not sparring it was non-existent, mumbled by moans, even inexplicable, unknowing tears of release from Angelina. When they kept a cold distance between each other, Angelina felt dead while she was waking, caged despite being free to walk out the door at any moment. She had come to him to be comforted by release at times, and those times she was spurned. He would not allow her to seek comfort in him, perhaps because it obliterated his identity, unavoidably tied to being her challenger. Deep down, she intuited that he had feared she would be addicted to sensation, and seek it somewhere else - he wanted to produce something original, something to keep her pinned neatly underneath the strokes of his elegant thumb across her cheek. In a sense, she felt sorry for him, knowing it was in large part how he justified his existence, how he explained himself in words un-endingly; a challenge. But this was not her preoccupation. Far from feeling fulfilled, she was reminded ever more of her wasted potential, swallowed back pain in every aspirant rebuttal, a reflection of her belief one could not rest on one's laurels. It was merely feckless noise to defend a past un-anchored in the present; an irrelevant resistance to the death she secretly wished would come, resolving the dedicated, unroused blood within her and her abdication as an Auror. She was never happy, whatever her body expressed, and he felt it. Sometimes they would seem to pass like ships in the night, still within touching distance in the hallways of the manor, when suddenly his hands would grab her shoulders and push her backwards onto the floor.

Hardly ever any affection, she thought amusedly, and no propriety whatsoever in the ripping of clothes and shoving of undergarments while lips and teeth nipped at her earlobes and throat. He wanted to lock eyes, wanted it to happen of its own accord, but always used legilimency in the end to ensure she focused on him, on his realness, nearness - perhaps at least relevant to her realness and nearness, if not necessary. The undeniable tension of attraction of wanting to be pushed, prodded and somehow, incongruously pleasured was there, but he wanted something more. She guessed it was devotion.

She had forgotten the meaning of the word.

There was a cold aftermath every time, whether slow and languorous, in which she was permitted the range to touch his hair, stroke his chest, engage all manner of lusty curiousity, or swift and punishingly euphoric. Neither experience closed the void within, which kept the distance between their bodies concrete and immutable unless verifying a primitive attraction. She hated him because she wanted to escape the plane of reality but Graham's mind-altering spells wouldn't allow it; she was aware of him, her life, precisely what their relationship comprised. She was a woman who'd lost everything, he perhaps a man who never got enough.

He had brought her back to this place of cares, worries, necessities, loss, death, and unrealised fulfillment. He had brought her back to stay. Her fear hardly stemmed from the extinguishing of physical life resultant of an order of intractability, but the death of traitorous deserter. She did not deal well in hypotheticals, chiding herself for needing to gather such an overwhelming body of failures, two years of impotence, to evidence this. Not only was it not her strong suit, it was antithetical to her undeniable strength, the talent that the Ministry would not allow wasted while she still lived. Of course Harry had signed the order. Her life did not belong to her as his did not belong to him; on the quidditch field it was she who ordered him (in one of her famous rages) to entirely disregard his personal welfare -namely, the wrath of Dolores Umbridge- to carry out his duties as Seeker. She'd heard later he thought she was trying to channel Oliver Wood. Rather, all Gryffindors came from the same stock and shared the same destiny. Harry asked her to become "a machine" again, but she realized that was more Montague's arena than hers. His plans bore the mark of intense calculation, often stunning in their accuracy, but this could never be her way. "The brave do not tarry," Kingsley Shacklebolt had once told her, and produced a parchment detailing when and where the first Auror training course (in Concealment and Disguise), was slated to begin.

She'd laughed it off, then found herself in deep reflection as Fred hustled and bustled about the Burrow with George, swinging his wand in every sort of comically defensive move in anticipation of his new career. Then the first day of training came, second floor of then dreary, cavernous Ministry of Magic, and she was there. Not even Fred had known of her decision until he and the others found her waiting alone, apparently the first one to arrive.

Loyalty to the D.A. had done it, the greatest battle the Wizarding world had ever seen had done it. Kingsley had merely tied all the loose ends together. Fred was fearless at any stage, particularly under fire (they both were), but his propensity for inventive tactics only suited himself and left his colleagues rudderless. Her capacity to quickly see the overall, the various ways in which others, passerbys, Muggles, even enemy henchmen could advance their objectives, to establish protocol which, far from overreaching, actually conserved the energies of Harry's team, made her the obvious choice as chief strategist. Her famed temper had no ceiling to be sure, but this only came when others doubted her at critical junctures. The fact was, she knew what she knew, even if she hadn't the time to explain it. From the moment Harry said "Go," (however hesitantly) Angelina was off, and after that she would not, and could not be stopped.

Until the day she stopped herself. That night on the pier with Fred was the first instance in which her plans had gone wrong; she made sure it was the last. Little in the world remained pristine forever, least of all an Auror's track record - she knew that now. But at the time she'd been so utterly taken aback so as to enter an emotional and mental stasis. She continued reporting to the Ministry, to Harry's office each week, the stack of files on her desk growing ever larger, and toiling atrociously, re-hashing the details of each operation unendingly, until she could not recall language. For weeks she could recommend no course of action. She could not calculate impartially, seeing only risk, fixated on the irreplaceable loss each agent posed to the unit. Turning visibly white as Harry or Ron finally stepped in to outline the plan, she put in for a leave of absence, to everyone's great relief, especially Harry. Surely she simply needed the time to grieve. But Angelina found no solace in friends and family, people clearly suffering the same loss but as she saw it, bearing none of the awful responsibility. No one had suggested she become an Auror, had they? She'd even wondered if Kingsley had suggested as much, or if she'd clamped onto a recommendation she'd merely hoped was there. How could she trust her intuition again, and employ it the only way she knew how (without question), when perhaps it was the mechanism for a terrible, irrevocable mistake?

After two long years at sea, so to speak, she was still insulated from nothing. She protected the community she loved from nothing. Fred had fallen fighting and defiant. He'd perished honourably, well away from any sort pointless misfortune. And Harry, he hadn't the luxury of hating himself over Sirius, even as a child. But she had frittered away her time with selfish delusions of requiring flawless judgment and calculable invincibility. As seeming proof, she remained rubbish at Wizard's Chess, however many times Graham reminded her of all the probabilities and memorisable tactics she'd forgotten. At base, she did not find chess play important enough to hold her attention. Magical espionage was not a game for its own sake - it represented the firm resolve to continue a legacy of unblinking resistance to the Dark Arts and its dark ends. Fred had sacrificed his waking life for it. Moreover she knew if he could, he would tell her he didn't resent it - the same commitment she, Ron, and Neville had all acknowledged when they signed onto Harry's team.

It was then the ever-emergent fears in Angelina's mind met deafening silence. Fear meant treason. Fear meant death, not only of the body, but also of the soul unrealised in life. Almost foreign in expression, a slow smile crept over her features and she closed her eyes. Peace, at last. Whether her fate by virtue or curse (the latter, for example, long alleged by the Malfoys of the famed Muggle ruler Gloriana), she was an Auror. "Semper eadem," she murmured. Ever the same, always the same - she would act as she knew best, come what may.

And this time, she would not stop.

()()()()()


End file.
